Songs For Absolution
by Mourning Ophelia
Summary: I can hear the gunfire and her screaming. It sounds like someone is trying to rip her apart, bit by bit. (Drabbles! Mainly Royai, EdWinry, and generic.)
1. Rain

Hi there. Please don't laugh at me for glaring errors or OOC-ness. I've never tried to write anything FMA before (stepping out of the Gundam W fandom is like, a nightmare for me). I've been keeping up with the manga and tiny tiny bits of the anime, so I don't claim to be an expert. In fact, if I think too hard about this series, I end up feeling depressed. :/

I can't remember who posted these themes, otherwise I'd give credit. Sorry. :(

These drabbles are het or generic. Mainly Ed/Win and Royai… because they are cute. In their own special way. They range from pre-series to post-series (well, the post series that exists in my fantasy world). Please let me know how I'm doing! I have a longer Royai fanfic in the works so I'm testing out the water with these.

And yes, there will be twenty! ( - No self control)

**Rain ("The Walnut Tree")**

It never rained in Ishvar.

This is what a desert is: nothing.

From the moment he crossed the threshold of the train and released that first, uncertain breath he knew. And when the air returned to his lungs, he found it mixed with sand and dry longings.

From the moment he saw the refugees, huddled in a line before him, he knew. Their skin had turned to leather in foul anger of the sun; their eyes incapable of tears, as if the wasteland had stolen even that from them too.

At home, in some distant place, there was a memory of a tree that had given him shade on the worst of days. Staring up into its branches he could calculate, manipulate, and rework the composition of fire. His fingers would run through the blades of grass until a spark was lit between his eyes and he was able to return home again. In the spring, the warm rain would lash at his back; the droplets slinking down the trunk of the tree or descending from thousands of leaves—each catching, in that instant, a single ray of light that exploded into a prism of colors.

From the moment he heard the arid screams of the children, he had realized his error. The previously pale landscape was engulfed in angry hues of red and crimson, scarring the ground black. It was unnatural, heathen.

The blue of the uniform burned his skin raw, the heat rising from the desert floor and distorting the landscape. For a moment, he forgot the corpses that lined the path before him and those that had crumbled to dust and ash long before. He felt the firm trunk claw at him through his wet shirt, and he rubbed his hand along the naive carvings in its trunk. How silly, how foolish.

A single snap.

He knew he had to escape before it desiccated him too.

This is what a desert is.

It never rained in Ishvar unless it rained blood.


	2. Death

**2) Death ("In Bloom")**

"_Fuehrer, are you ready?"_

"_Please… don't call me that. It's so unnatural coming from you."_

"_I'm sorry, Sir. Sometimes it's hard for me to even not revert back to Colonel."_

"_Second lieutenant, first lieutenant, secretary… lieutenant colonel, colonel, fuehrer… those are just titles…"_

"…_Roy…"_

His hand brushed by hers briefly as they exited the Grand Chamber. An overwhelming roar of approval seemed to overtake them, tempting them back to receive it, drown in it. Any doubt that the Flame Alchemist could evolve into a beloved politician was evaporated the moment he gripped the sides of the podium.

Her hands straightened the glasses she didn't need, smoothed over the pure white blouse, and slipped behind her back in a familiar position—Riza had a hard time reconciling herself with the feminine clothing and lack of uniform.

"_You don't need that anymore." His voice stopped her from picking up her sidearm. _

"_You don't need me anymore." She replied, knowing it was true. What had she told the Rockbell girl? She had a man to protect—to push to the top. But now that he was there…_

Roy was several paces in front of her, Breda, Armstrong and Fuery right behind him; a flash of crimson indicated that even the Fullmetal Alchemist had made the journey to witness such a day. He spoke in haughty, slightly arrogant tones that reduced the Fuehrer's face to a mere smile.

"_That's not true. All I'm saying is that you don't need to put yourself out there to be killed anymore."_

It was nice to see him smile again.

"_You know that you can't decide that for me."_

She heard it before the others; that quiet creaking of metal, the click of a safety. She wondered who it was—a citizen, a disgruntled politician, a soldier—but did it matter? A hand reached down for the gun that wasn't there. The rest of the world was blocked out, and suddenly it was only Riza Hawkeye and the squeezing of a trigger.

A step to the right…

_He took her hands between his, holding them to his chest._

It exploded in her ears, and she was dully aware of it ripping through her chest to the ceiling above the Fuehrer's head. All conversation in the hall suddenly stopped. Roy turned to look and met her gaze. Eyes widened in shock, anger, horror, fury. He was shouting, _screaming_, something at her, but the blood in her ears was pounding too loudly—she couldn't breathe. Dozens of people swarmed to him, protecting him from another shot. But it was she that had saved him—it was _her_. She still had a purpose without a gun, without a uniform.

Riza placed a hand to her chest, knowing how the blood bloomed throughout her blouse. They were carrying him away, no matter how hard he struggled to get to her side. She swayed, her legs giving out from beneath her. Someone caught her—Falman? Fuery? Breda? Havoc? Armstrong? Edward?

"_Roy?"_

Another ran past her after the fleeing criminal.

How ironic, she wanted to say, the blood filling her throat and lungs, to die in such a way. How befitting, she wanted to cry, blackness spotting out the chandelier lights above, for the retirement of a sharpshooter.

"_Fuehrer, are you ready?"_


	3. Dreams

**3) Dreams ("Childhood")**

"Ed, do you remember ever going fishing with Al and I?"

The alchemist turned his head slightly in her direction, "… no. I think we had wanted to, though."

Winry clasped her hands around the simple wood of the fence; her gaze drifting from Edward's hunched back to his feet planted firmly in the ground. He would never sit atop the fence with her. It was too childish.

"What about building a fortress out of extra sheets?"

"Yeah. Al thought up every password to get into it."

"…playing tag outside in a lightening storm?"

This time he did turn to look at her, blatantly confused, "Why are you asking me this?"

Her gaze sought out the caked mud drying on her bare feet, "Lately I've been having a hard time separating dreams from reality." Her voice was drawn out, as if she hesitated to relinquish that part of herself.

Edward rolled the gold watch between his palms, his focus on a burnt out, hollow structure before him.

"I know how you feel."


	4. Love

**Love ("Threefold")**

**(Spoilers for Manga chapter 39 :x)**

I can hear the gunfire and her screaming. It sounds like someone is trying to rip her apart, bit by bit.

I could hear it before I stumbled through the hallway. For a moment, I was sure that it would have woken up Havoc and we could have gone together.

…What had my reckless first lieutenant gotten herself into?

I burned my own flesh and carved into it. I mutilated myself. I feel around for Havoc's lighter; an old trick from my childhood. Faster, faster, faster. I need to move, to protect, and to save. (I can't let another person die, least of all her. I just have to think about what the bitch did to me and imagine it happening to her to send my heart and head into frenzied fits.) The blood on my hands leaves a trail on the walls. I'm coming.

Suddenly, there is silence.

She drops to the floor, completely spent, emotionally wasted. And there is Alphonse, stepping out in front of her. Are those tears? I have never seen her look this way. What did she say to you, Hawkeye?

Move, Hawkeye, move.

… what are you doing just sitting there?

… _Hawkeye_… you can't hear me, but I know you can hear Alphonse. Where is your sense?

You are not dead inside. _You are not dead yet._

…

Listen, Hawkeye.

There are three types of love: family, friendship, and romance.

I'm not worth any of them. I didn't deserve my family or Hughes. Don't be my third.

… Don't love me like that…

Riza, if you can't stand up (if you're too tired, too hurt) I will protect you this time. This is vindication now, I understand.

I open my mouth and the words slice through the hush.

Hawkeye, where is your strength?

Don't let me be your power.

I'm nothing.

Alphonse knows what to do—friendship. He loves you too. Do you see now?

Look, Hawkeye—watch as she burns.

Without you, it's all I have left.


	5. Family

**Family ("The Promise")**

Getting drunk off his ass at a six year old's birthday party was not exactly the crowning achievement of Roy Mustang's life, but he was too wasted to be embarrassed about it.

It had started innocently enough. Alicia stared up at him with _those_ eyes, smiled at him with _that_ smile. His defenses were already down just being in the Hughes' household, surrounded by millions of photographs of his friend and young family. Gracia had offered him a beer, which rapidly became two, and then three when Alicia blew out her candles and wished for her Daddy to come back.

The fourth came when Gracia turned to him and said, "Without Alicia I would never have made it this far. I just have to look at her to see her father smiling at me. I know he's watching over us, every day—every second." Alicia and her friends were already tucked into bed in her very first slumber party.

The fifth: "Roy, have you ever thought about settling down? I know Maes used to bother you endlessly, but…"

The sixth: "I think I'm going to call Riza to come pick you up…"

Even though his vision was severely impaired and he was half-passed out lying across the couch (a picture of Maes stared down at him mockingly from the coffee table), he was able to make out Riza's slight form. In that moment, he almost forgot just how strong she was; in civilian clothing she seemed so breakable—so needing of protection.

"Colonel," she breathed out as he leaned against hers and Gracia's shoulders, "Something tells me you won't be in tomorrow."

He shook his head as they slid him into the automobile. Riza reached over, halfway through the drive to his empty, desolate apartment and grabbed his hand, "Did she bring up Hughes again?"

Roy nodded dully, his head already throbbing.

The colonel would not remember it the next morning, but somehow the woman was able to drag him into his apartment and onto his bed. She didn't bother divesting him, instead opting to pull out a water glass and fill it. Next came two aspirin, neatly lined up next to it and a telephone. Everything was _perfect_. This was not the first time they danced this song.

Riza brushed a hand over his forehead, wiping away remnants of tears and sweat, "Are you going to be all right, Roy?" Her voice was soft as she knelt down next to him. His hands immediately reached down to bring her closer to him—to hear that steady heart beat and remember that not all his dear ones had passed. She smiled slightly, kissing his forehead. Roy eased himself back onto his pillows and closed his eyes, listening to her breathing.

Beneath his closed lids bloomed images of little blonde girls and black haired boys with raven eyes and golden smiles captured in the rows of pictures lined up neatly on his walls.


	6. Broken Hearts

**Broken Hearts ("Goodnights to Eternity") **

I have figured out the composition of a broken heart.

I am pressing my face into my pillow. I am unable to breathe. I am alone.

She is in the next room sobbing so loudly that I turn away from the noise. If I think about him too hard—if I close my eyes to try to rest—thoughts and memories begin their ambush, tumbling over each other like pictures in a slideshow.

There is no clean break to be heard or seen. I have decided that this wilting of willpower and strength is merely the result of waning self worth. There seems to be a trend of the innocently pure vanishing in our absence. The fucking military blaming it on someone, the first fucking person, as if they don't know how horrible the situation is—like it was some run of the mill murder. I knew him (_I know him_). He wouldn't have been out there, unable to defend himself.

They say they found a family picture drenched in his blood lying nearby. It makes sense to me, as if it was some sort of cruel poetic justice. It is a single piece of his life, a single moment. I suppose it's lucky that he took as many pictures as he did—they'll be able to piece his life together, "_This was your father the hero_" they'll say, "_This man could have saved the world._" If I believed in a God, I'd think he was laughing at me right now, marking the next person, challenging me to rise up and meet him. There are no stairs to Heaven that I can climb to beat the hell out of him. There is no Heaven for _him_ to smile down upon them from, or that he can find rest from endless work. That alone should move me to vengeance. He will haunt this place forever.

Still, I can't move. I want to know if I could have made a difference. I want to know why I didn't find out about this sooner. I want to know what the funeral was like (I wanted to be there). I want to know who did this. _I want to know._

I think she has cried herself to sleep, and suddenly I wish I had that ability—that luxury of exhaustion.

There is another soul that never sleeps. His approach is not marked by a cold breeze or a warm glow, but rather the weighty saunter of an even heavier state.

"Brother?" The floor creaks beneath him in reply.

He is only a child. He is only a child. _He is only a child._ What right do I have to be more confused and devastated than him? How do you comfort a person while your eyes bleed together colors and memories? I am not a good person. Tonight I will dream again of human transmutation and forget the horrors and punishment it brings.

He has settled himself down into the corner, maybe darker than my own. I am not a good person. I have no way to comfort him. I imagine his form, sunken down upon the floor, unable to curl up to warmth. Does he still remember what it felt like to be safely guarded in the arms of another? Does he recall the feeling of skin on skin? (There is unwarranted cruelty in having something so beautiful and then having it taken away, but if there is no memory there is nothing to dwell over.) I want to know what he feels right now—what it would be like to not have a persistent reminder of human emotions alive within, striking at the walls of your chest until both are numb with hallow hurt and repentant anger.

_Al_, I think, _you are the luckiest one of all_.


End file.
